4E 201, Shor's Stone
Gerron Ironbreaker
"You know, when I said I wanted a peaceful life, this wasn't what I meant," Grogmar muttered, arms crossed over his broad chest as he watched a Dunmer lad get knocked flat on his back by a surprisingly spry Nord girl.
Gerron chuckled as he approached the old orc, the early dawn casting a golden hue across the training field. "Come on, Grogmar. Don't tell me you don't find a little joy in getting these youngsters into shape?"
The orc turned his tusked grin toward him. "Didn't say that." He cracked his knuckles. "Beating them into the ground in the name of training… it sure stirs the blood."
Across the dusted field, twenty villagers sparred with wooden practice swords. It was a ragtag group of farmers, hunters, even a handful of old miners who had grown tired of swinging pickaxes. Men and mer alike, panting and grinning as they stumbled through drills and footwork in pairs. Clumsy, but determined.
Gerron exhaled slowly, his eyes scanning the training field with a quiet sense of pride.
He had wasted no time after his return from Kagrenzel. The vision—the blueprint of a stronger Shor's Stone had burned itself into his mind.
It would take decades or even centuries to make it a reality. But like all projects, it had to start somewhere.
The first problem? Walls. Even a rudimentary wooden palisade would keep out wolves, trolls, and bandits. But they were nowhere near enough for dragons—rumors of their return were no longer dismissed as old Nord tales. Filnjar had heard of the attacks near Helgen and sightings all across Skyrim.
Shor's Stone had no defense for beasts of that calibre. They didn't have the coin for massive stonework, not yet. But with the ebony sold to Balimund in Riften, they had enough to purchase raw lumber from a logging camp down the valley and commission transport.
Seven-foot wooden stakes, sharpened and bound with rope and iron bands, were now being hoisted into place. The men and women of Shor's Stone had taken to the task with surprising eagerness. It was as if the village itself had woken from a long slumber.
Filnjar had given a speech, nothing fancy, just words from the heart—about strength, about survival, about building something for their children. That was all it took. Hands raised. Shovels picked up. Spirits kindled.
Normally, a change this sweeping would've required a charter from the steward in Riften. City planners, royal stamps, bureaucracy—the whole mess. But Filnjar just waved it away.
The good thing about all this was that Gerron didn't need to guess what Shor's Stone could become. He had seen it. Every inch of what it could become.
What shocked him most, though, was Filnjar's reaction. The old smith didn't argue. Didn't ask questions. When Gerron laid down the plans and spoke of defensive layouts, infrastructure, and militia training, Filnjar simply nodded.
"I trust you," he had said. "You've already saved this village once. If this is your vision, then we'll follow it."
That kind of trust had stirred something inside Gerron.
So the work began in earnest. The braver volunteers were sent to work as the first militia of Shor's Stone, where Grogmar would begin working them to the bone to create a proper force.
They'd protect the village, patrol the forests, and eventually man the palisade. The rest helped with construction, smithing, or logistics.
Filnjar offered each of them a generous wage from the ebony funds. They weren't much by legion standards, but enough to put food on the table.
Seeing the men and women practicing in the yard, a small smile appeared on Gerron's face. They were a far cry from a proper defense force, but it was a start. With the men and women training with their hearts out, it's only proper he gives his all as well.
Returning to his forge, he began making the proper arms and armor for the protectors of Shor's Stone. Filnjar made good with his promise. After his return from Kagrenzel, there were barrels full of iron and ebony ore set up on his forge that he could fashion into his own use.
Shortswords with strong tangs. Heater shields reinforced with oak cores. Simple but sturdy brigandine helms, riveted together with care. Chainmail hauberks sewn into thick linen tunics to keep out the chill during winter. Functional armor for villagers turned soldiers. Enough arrows for each militiamen to miss a dozen times and still have plenty leftover.
He continued working late into the night, finishing the last set of armor and setting it aside. What's miraculous is that even after working from dawn till dusk, he didn't feel the least bit fatigued. There was no ache in his arms nor any soreness on his back.
'The Battle Smith perk of the System must be improving my stamina.' Gerron realized. It was a welcome surprise. It was like a second wind that never stopped blowing.
Not to mention the raw power he could feel behind his muscular arms. The system had enhanced his strength somewhat since the large weights he would usually struggle with barely even bothered him now.
He forged one last piece before turning in. A great axe of blackened ebony, its edge honed to a whisper-thin crescent. It was brutal, elegant, and perfectly balanced. A weapon worthy of the orc who had rallied strangers into warriors.
A weapon for Grogmar.
When the two moons of Nirn rose high above the pine trees and the forge fires dimmed, Gerron finally trudged back into his home.
He shed his soot-covered apron, washed his hands in a basin, and made his way to the far corner of the house—where the soft glow of candlelight flickered around his shrine to Zenithar.
It had changed over the months. No longer a crude wood carving. It was now a shrine carved of smoothed stone, with bands of ebony inlaid into the corners. A hammer rested at the center—a symbol of toil and peace. A place to work and worship, both.
He knelt on one knee, pressing his calloused hand to the stone.
Just as he had every night after awakening from the vision of a blue star, he prayed.
The candle flame danced, casting long shadows across the shrine.
And for a moment, all was still.
…
Kiera Fendalyn
It had been a decade since she had left Skyrim, and the cold tundra had remained the same as always.
The moment she had crossed the border, memories of days long past echoed in her mind. Though she was a Breton by blood, Skyrim was the land that had shaped her. It was where she was born and raised.
Her mother, Keeper Carcette, had led the northern branch of the Vigilants of Stendarr for years now. Ever since the day she could walk, Kiera had followed her through the hallowed halls, listening to stories of Daedra-hunting crusades and dawn raids on vampire covens. Every Vigilant she met was a warrior, a protector—part priest, part knight, bound by purpose.
Kiera had wanted nothing more than to be one of them. To be a protector, just like her mother.
However, all of the Vigilants in Skyrim, including her mother, were surprised when she decided to leave.
Being Carcette's daughter wasn't just a blessing. It was a title with chains. The pressure to live up to her mother's name, to be perfect, to never fail—it became a weight she could no longer bear.
So she escaped. She left Skyrim with the promise of always sending her mother letters and went for Cyrodiil. To the Temple of Stendarr in Chorrol, far from the expectations that followed her.
Years she had spent as a Vigilant, going around Cyrodiil hunting down remnants of daedric cults that still persist even after a whole era since the Oblivion Crisis.
And now she was back, finally home once more.
Yet, the moment she stepped foot in Skyrim, she got grabbed by Imperials who didn't know the difference between a Vigilant and a Stormcloak.
Her features didn't help. White hair and amber-yellow eyes—not a drop of Nordic blood in her appearance. They never even looked at her amulet. Or listened.
[Image of Kiera]
All Vigilants possess marked Amulets of Stendarr as signs of their allegiance to the order. It was created when they made their oath, magic fused with their words that would persist until the Vigilants death.
Kiera knew of the rebellion going down in Skyrim. While she was sympathetic to their cause, she also knew that weakening the Empire at this time would only serve the Thalmor rather than go against them.
It was partially what drove her to make her trip back home, the letters her mother painted of the war were not pretty after all.
And yet, the Imperial Soldiers—ones who looked far too young and inexperienced to be in the frontlines—surrounded her and forced her to surrender her blade. Not to mention the captain who seemed like a very racist woman with no morals from the way she kept insisting and demanded that Kiera be executed for being a Stormcloak sympathizer.
She knew she was capable enough to defeat the small squad of six if necessary, but spilling blood here would only make things worse. So she did as they asked and let them escort her to a wagon where other prisoners were already bound.
The trip to the walled town of Helgen was long, so she fell asleep on the way. When she awoke, she befriended a man called Ralof, who was one of the Stormcloaks bound for execution.
He was a broad-shouldered Nord with kind eyes and a stubborn pride. They spoke in hushed tones, nothing deep—just names, family, and stories. He reminded her of the men she'd grown up admiring—honorable, if flawed. She wished they had met under better circumstances. He would've made a good Vigilant.
They arrived in Helgen not long after. Luckily for her, General Tullius was a much more sensible man. One glance at the amulet around her neck and the bindings came off.
The tongue-lashing the captain received afterward was… satisfying.
The execution was held promptly then. While Kiera was quite saddened to see Ralof and his allies being lined up towards the block, she had little to no authority in stopping anything. So she stood to the side and vowed to see it all till the end.
Then, the dragon came.
It took everyone by surprise. A massive beast of legend with pitch black scales and a wingspan that swallowed Helgen in its shadow.
A single breath caused the skies to darken and meteors to fall from the heavens themselves, shattering towers and igniting buildings in a heartbeat.
Helgen descended into chaos.
The soldiers fought and the civilians ran. She joined in the efforts, but her blade, Dawnbite, the sword that had accompanied her as a Vigilant, couldn't even scratch the dragon's thick hide.
So she cast Ironflesh with nary a thought, and her body was wrapped in a faint shimmer of pale silver. Shielding herself from flying debris, she grabbed injured soldiers—Imperials and Stormcloaks alike—pulling them to their feet, dragging them behind fallen wagons and shattered walls.
When a collapsing tower nearly crushed a child, she used Telekinesis to shove the rubble aside.
While she was much more skilled in Alteration than Restoration, she didn't hesitate healing anyone who was still sound of mind. For in the eyes of a dragon, there was no civil war. Only humanity.
She led them out of the collapsing Helgen and from there, travelled to Riverwood along with any survivors she managed to gather. She was pleasantly surprised to see Ralof among them.
She stayed there for several days. Helping and healing anyone who needed it.
Kiera patched wounds, did minor magic to entertain the children, and did what she could to comfort the shaken townsfolk. Ralof introduced her to his sister Gerdur, who offered warm meals and grateful words.
It felt good to serve again. To be needed.
Doing so much magic in a short amount of time would usually tire her out quickly, but the local general store was kind enough to donate to her all the magicka potions they had. While they were far from the quality she had access to back in the Temple of Stendarr, they were still of immense help.
When word spread of the attack, Gerdur pleaded for someone to go to Whiterun and warn the Jarl. Kiera had volunteered immediately.
But something else came to her ears during her time in Riverwood.
A tale of the old barrow nestled atop the mountain—the ancient, crumbling ruin of Bleak Falls Barrow. Locals whispered of undead, of necromancers, and of some thief who had disappeared inside after stealing Lucan's golden claw.
While the purging of the walking dead as well as the vile necromancers who conjure them usually falls onto the job description of Paladins of Arkay, she didn't mind helping out once in a while.
Evil was evil. And undeath had always been unnatural.
So she made her choice and bid Gerdur and her family goodbye.
And now, she stood at the edge of the trail leading up the snow-blanketed mountain, the pines rising like sentinels on either side of the narrow path. Her breath misted in the air, and her cloak flapped gently in the breeze.
She came to Skyrim to finally see her mother again. But she could wait. The Hall of Vigilants could wait.
For there were people that needed her help.
…
AN: The dragonborn makes her appearance! A Vigilant of Stendarr Dovahkiin with a focus on one-handed and Alteration as her specialized school of magic.
She and Gerron will go on their individual journeys for a while before eventually coming together and teaming up.
Coming up with her character was a joy. Aedra and daedra will have a pretty big presence as well, since both of the main characters are pretty devout worshippers of the divines.
Before you guys ask, I have zero plans for romance. So don't go asking if she's the love interest or not since I plan for her and Gerron's dynamic to be a fun sibling kind of one.
As always, more chapters are available on my Pat_reon. Chapter 17 should be available by the time this chapter was posted. Just look up my name and you'll find me.
Hope you guys enjoyed the chapter! Cheers!